Page 7 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

He nods, the movement slight enough I’d have missed it if I weren’t staring at him with laser beam intensity.

“I concede that makes this feel pointless. But the university is requiring you to pass this course. And apparently, you’re good at throwing or catching or whatever, so here we are, Logan. This whole thing has a point. It’s to get you to pass. To stay eligible so an entire team of men who also like to throw and catch balls can do so in front of a few thousand people every Saturday for the next four months. And then our school can make gobs of money off of the whole thing. And the administration can pat themselves on the back for force feeding you a science curriculum that you will forget the moment you turn in your final. And that is the point. It’s an incredibly pointless point, but there it is. And it’s my responsibility. So, how about you take a seat and we review things one more time before we call it a day and pick up where we left off tomorrow?”

His mouth hangs open. A hint of a curve plays at the corners, showing his amusement. I’m not sure whether he’s about to laugh at me or praise me for being tough.

“Rachel.” He lets my name hang in the air, closing his mouth into a tight line and holding my gaze. He has nice eyes. Green, which is my favorite color.

“Rachel,” I repeat.

He nods again, this time taking his seat and scooting in, every bit the good pupil. I flip the book back to the beginning of the measurements section, which is where things seem to have gone awry, and write a few examples on my notepad for us to work through together. His brow pinches as I talk him through the first sample problem, but when I quiz him on the answer, he gets it right, sitting back in his seat and holding his arms up to celebrate.

“All right!” he shouts, earning a shh from the main desk librarian. He mouths an apology then reaches his palm forward for me to slap, and I give him a high-five that doesn’t quite land center and causes him to spit out a laugh.

The librarian hushes us again, and I can’t help it. I smile.

“Sorry, it’s just that I suck at this.” He holds up my notebook the way they do picture books at story time. The librarian isn’t amused, and simply glares at him over the dark frame of her glasses.

Logan gives up on trying to appease her, turning his attention back to me. He flops the notebook back on the table and taps the problem he got right with his finger.

“Hit me with another.” He rubs his hands together, suddenly turning chemistry into a sport, and my grin inches a tad higher. I think maybe I’m a little proud.

“Okay, try this?—”

“Rachel?”

I literally snap the tip of my pencil on the page at the sound of Dalton’s voice. I’ve avoided the library since our breakup. I figured I’d be able to slip in and out unnoticed today because, as I have his schedule memorized, I knew he’d be in his study group at the café. Of course, now I doubt the existence of the study group at all. I bet that was yet another code word for fucking your bestie.

Words fail me, and my emotions are still raw and undealt with, so I slip on the invisible mask and twist in my chair to meet him with a hard glare. His eyes dance from me to Logan, that tiny dent he always gets when he’s perplexed forming over his left brow. If I were certain Logan would play along with me, I’d introduce him as my friend. My tongue is still refusing to work, however, so I stick with the glare, letting it linger until Logan’s the first to break the harsh silence.

“What’s up, man? Logan.” He stands and reaches across the table—across my chest—to shake Dalton’s hand.

My ex chuckles, taking his palm and nodding.

“I’m Dalton,” he says, glancing down and catching enough of my notebook to piece things together because his eyes flutter shut as he smiles. “Oh, right. Tutoring. Of course.”

“What do you mean of course?” Now my mouth works? Those are the words I choose as my first since he stomped on my integrity and heart at the same time?

“Oh, nothing. I mean, you’re probably a great tutor. And it makes sense. I’m sure Logan can use your help, and you’re probably saving up for . . . you know.” His sure smile falters a bit when he realizes the corner he’s back himself into.

“This isn’t a paid thing, so no. I’m not saving up for . . . you know.” The corners of my mouth pinch and I swallow down the bile bubbling up.

“How do you know I’m not the tutor?” Logan pipes in.

Dalton laughs, probably assuming he’s making a joke. Neither Logan nor I laugh.

“Oh, I assumed . . . I mean . . . what subject is it?” His forehead squiggles up, and I figure Logan will let him off the hook in a few seconds.

“Physical education,” he says, instead of the, “I’m just messing with you” I anticipated.

His tone is dead serious, and before I have time to react, Logan hooks his foot in the leg of my chair, dragging it, and me, closer to him. The chair squeals along the wood floor. Without looking up at Dalton, he focuses instead on my face, leaning forward and brushing a loose wave of hair behind my right ear. His thumb grazes my cheek along the way, and my body peppers with goose bumps underneath my sweatshirt and jeans. If I could muster saliva, I’d swallow. Instead, I lose myself in the clover green of Logan’s eyes.

A nervous laugh slips out of Dalton’s mouth, this time earning him a “Quiet, sir,” from our favorite librarian. I glance his direction in time to see his ears turn red, a tic he’s had since he was a kid, a vasovagal response to unwanted attention. I used to feel bad for him when it happened. It’s his biggest fear about arguing in court one day. Right now, however, I enjoy every cherry red moment.

Dalton’s gaze lingers on me for a few quiet seconds, and as much as I want to hate him forever—and plan to—it also hurts having him pin me with those intense blue eyes. I should maybe step outside with him and explain. Or offer to talk later, for closure. It’s been weeks since I walked out of this very building, leaving his betrayal behind me, at least literally. Maybe I owe it to myself to get the words I’ve been practicing ever since off my chest.

Suddenly, the gentle touch of a finger tips my chin to my left, and blue eyes are traded for green.

“You ready, Rach?” Logan’s soft smile feels genuine, and the way his fingertips are suddenly scratching at the denim over my knees pulls me in even deeper. I’m not sure how many seconds pass. Two, five, six? But eventually Logan’s gaze drifts over my shoulder and I follow his lead to see Dalton walking away. My palms are sweaty. And my heart is hopscotching around my sternum.

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